My Dahlia
by xx-Twisted Fantasy-xx
Summary: Damon will never atone for his sins. Bonnie can't stand the loss of innocent blood. They will never be home.


__**Disclaimer: I don't own TVD.**

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><p><em><strong>She seems dressed in all the rings... of past fatalities <strong>_

When he looks at her, he sees every sin he has ever committed—every insult that has ever past his lips, every punch he has thrown, the unyielding stain of innocent blood. His mistakes are so carefully laid out before him, a canvas as to why he is undeserving of everything he has ever begged for, and so deserving of all the bad things he's come to accept as his life. No, his very _existence_. A person can't live if they are dead inside.

_**So fragile, yet so devious—she continues to see. . . **_

At first glance, she appears blissfully ignorant.

But. . . no. . . that isn't quite right. Anyone who looks at her now will see her for what she has become, a broken doll, made from jagged glass and a sick sense of right and wrong. He sometimes catches glimpses of what she _was: _surprisingly naive.

A young teenaged girl who knew absolutely nothing of the Darkness looming over her head, much like a guillotine. A sharp blade just waiting to bury itself in her neck.

He changed that.

He treated her life as if it were disposable—he still does.

His actions opened her eyes.

He cut into her throat and painted a wicked smile on her face. A haunted expression that still remains on her face to this day. It is one that rings of loss. The pain of losing one of the only people who understood what you are feeling.

It feels like a sharp knife—he knows that particular agony well—and when she looks at him, she sees the knife that was used to murder that one person who looked after her.

He kills only the most important of things, because the satisfaction of that tastes so sweet, and when it's for his cause, easing _his_ torment is the only purpose that matters.

He just wants to ease his pain.

He is one (sick, demented, terrible) bastard.

_**climatic hands that press her temples and my chest  
>Enter the night that she came home - forever <strong>_

She is often forced upon the one person she thinks has no redeeming qualities.

Her stomach intertwines itself into thousands upon thousands of intricate knots. Bile eats away at her insides. He makes her absolutely _sick. _Those eyes are too expansive (smug, evil, sinful, lost, hurt, alone) and they drive her insane.

He stares at her as if Hell will open up under their feet and swallow them both—bones turning to sawdust with screams drowning in fire.

And then. . . then he _touches_ her.

She half-expects to find claws where pale fingers should be, but he is only doing it to. . . to what?

Protect her?

She doesn't need protecting from anybody—least of all _him_.

On a rare occasion, he hugged her body to his chest (half-alive and scared) and that word-she-doesn't-need felt sort-of _okay_, though she'd rather sew her own mouth shut than freely admit such bullshit to anybody, least of all _her._ The girl who is even more confused than herself.

She couldn't do that to _her_.

Or that boy she loves—sort of.

No, she couldn't do that to _herself._

_Oh..._

_**She is everything and more, the solemn hypnotic  
>My dahlia, bathed in possession - she is home to me.<strong>_

He sees nothing but pain everysingletime he catches her staring at him.

That's right. Sometimes she watches him, probably with the intent of watching him suffer, but her gaze is on him all the same. And. . . and God, he hates to admit it, but those emotions—the black anguish—of hers mirror his own and they are like the same being. Neither person one hundred percent human.

And then morality slaps him in the face.

He made her Not Human.

And even though the blackness burns her flesh—like it marks his—she will always be better.

Because she _cares._

_**I get nervous, perverse, when I see her, it's worse  
>But the stress is astounding<br>It's now or never, she's coming home - forever **_

And the guilt. . .

It's poison in his veins.

He is guilty for her destruction, and while he was forgiven (not by her, mind you), but by The Only Reason He Breathes (yes, _he_r, The Best Friend who really shouldn't dole out other people's apologies) it doesn't help in the least.

It's a giant mind-fuck that he can't escape.

He is (sort of) home when they are together, because she knows what he feels and that's _just wrong._

Hatred is a river that goes past bones and marrow and muscle, it's engraved deep inside of him.

He's doubtful that it will ever leave him the hell alone.

_**Oh... She's the only one that makes me sad**_

_**Hard to say what caught my attention  
>Fixed and crazy - aphid attraction <strong>_

It doesn't help that he likes the power that sings in her blood. . .

He fucking hates it.

_**Carve my name in my face - to recognize  
>Such a pheromone cult to terrorize <strong>_

His eyes bore into hers with so much intensity that she can hardly stand it. What once scared her beyond anything else, now ignited in her a need to stay strong. Stay strong. And don't let any of this get to her. Not even his _thank you's_, even though they do flatter her. . .

_**I won't let this build up inside of me...**_

She. Will. Not. Let. Him. Affect. Her.

_**I'm a slave and I am a master  
>No restraints and unchecked collectors<br>I exist to my need - to self-oblige  
>She is something in me - that I despise.<strong>_

He hates himself.

He hates her.

It's useless to ignore it now; he made them the same.

_**I won't let this build up inside of me..**_

He can't stand it.

_**I can't make her real. . .**_

It's funny, really. He wants it acknowledged. Maybe then the agony will go away. But then. . . it would be real and nobody wanted that.

Least of all them.


End file.
